Warnings
by Tetis
Summary: She was always told she was mature for her age, and she always blushed and mumbled some modest thanking words. But only the few months that passed since she graduated school made her feel older than her eighteen years."


**Warnings**

She sits at the small apartment and tries to understand where everything went wrong. What happened that made the path of her life, which always seemed so certain and ensuring, turn and reveal a whole new world she was not ready to cope with.

She never dreamt of money; When she looks around her, at the cracked walls and the small bed, she knows how lucky she was when she defined her ambitions, and gave up fortune in advance. All she wanted, and still wants, is a cosy home to come back to after a long day of work in a respected office. Even that humble request seems now distant, impossible to reach. She curses herself silently, curses for the damned pride and the unnecessary self-respect. The independence she once valued so much is a burden now, and she wants to throw it to the fire so it will burn, burst into flames, and the heat will bring back a part of her lost personality, a part that was lost with the blush in the cheeks and the childish hopes.

She used to think knowledge was power; She thought that with the appropriate education she'll be able to conquer any summit and cross any river. It was her motto and she behaved according to it, while burying herself in books. She loved reading, loved the feeling she can cross countries and times. Too much time had passed before she understood: the power of friendship was much stronger than the human wisdom. The idea sank too late, when she was already left with nothing, when even the mental pieces that could have been patched, fumed and disappeared somewhere at the margins of her mind.

She was always told she was mature for her age, and she always blushed and mumbled some modest thanking words. But only the few months that passed since she graduated school made her feel older than her eighteen years. Loneliness chokes her, and she feels like an old lady that everyone leaves, after getting sick of her numerous groans and complaints; And it's now that she needs a strong arm that wouldn't let her fall. Not a soul of those who called themselves her friends came to the old building to check if she's able to pave her path to happiness in Muggle London.

At the time, it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do. When Ron left her and started dating that brunette from Hufflepuff , she felt as if all the things that symbolized the magical world were meaningless. On those torturing nights, when she tries to find the point that made everything go wrong, she wonders whether this was the turning point.

The war against the Death-Eaters became endlessly longer, even though everybody knew the total, final victory depends on a force they could not understand. The Ministry of Magic refused to hear her ideological homilies, and even more so to teach her – or any other youth – to work in the hospital. They told her teaching will take time and resources they don't have, and she didn't know where else she could go. So she told herself, finally, she will disengage from everything, from the world that adopted her and rejected her, until the war is over and time will heal the pain of failure. She can now tell it was a mistake.

Teachers used to say she was brilliant, an excellent student, a promising genius. She laughs bitterly when she thinks of all those nicknames, and the clear poverty of her small space makes her eyes ache. Yes, she used to stand in the centre. She used to think of eighteen as the age in which all dreams start to come true, not as the age in which they brutally die by reality. Professor Flitwick used to praise her with enthusiasm and Professor McGonagall used to send restrained smiles at her; Smiles that died on that last battle. And when she reconstructs it in her memory, with a typical severity, she wants to rock the world, scream for all the blood that was spilled and all the young souls that were taken before having the chance to live properly. But instead of doing so she gets up to her feet, silently takes her coat, locks the door and walks out, to the chilly air that cuts her lungs.

She paces, invisible, in a street crowded with people that think they're important, fights with the mob in an attempt to find a piece of pavement of her own. Christmas decorations that hang from stores entrances reminds her slightly of the date, which she forgot a long time ago, as if unimportant for her basic existence. She tries to find interesting profiles of people and tries to guess where they are heading in such a rush, just like she did when she was a little girl, but she doesn't care what other people do, for some reason. So she goes to the right alley and says the right words in front of the right display window, and gets to the right ward, not paying attention to the people around her. When she first visited the place, three years ago, she didn't think she'd go there that often; didn't imagine that would be the home of the only person she lives for.

His appearance didn't change at all, and yet there's not a clue in his face to the boy she once loved like a sister. He cannot recognize her, even though she comes to visit him weekly. But she still fixes the pillow under his head and whispers"Merry Christmas, Harry."


End file.
